Free
by snitch-bewitch
Summary: Clint Barton couldn't handle it. Couldn't move on. He was a lone star, a solitary figure, but moving on was the hardest thing he had ever done. Rated T for mature themes. Trigger warning.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: As much as I wish I did, I do not own anyone or anything you recognise!

* * *

Clint sat, surveying the city from the rooftop, his legs dangling over the edge. One move, one shift–perhaps an inch more... he'd have a minute or so of glorious free-falling.

Before splattering onto the pavement.

He'd be gone.

He wouldn't have to sit and watch the aftermath of what he had done. He wouldn't have to see the accusation in their eyes. He'd be gone.

_It's not your fault,_ some of them had said. _Loki made you did it. You didn't choose to. _

He let out a short, humourless laugh. Sure, Loki had done it. What _he_ done, though? He hadn't fought. Clint hadn't been strong enough. Loki hadn't taken over Natasha, Fury, Stark, Rogers, Banner… his stomach sank for the millionth time as his thought strayed to his handler.

_Coulson._

Dead. Gone. Never coming back.

Loki had stabbed him, Natasha had said. Coulson fought. He fought until the last minute, but Loki's scepter was stronger. _It wasn't your fault_, Natasha had repeated gently, cupping his face in her hands. _It was Loki. _He pulled away from her.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout. Of _course_ it was his fault. He hadn't directly wielded the weapon, but who let Loki on the helicarrier? Who killed the agents that fruitlessly tried to stop him? Who brought Loki to Coulson? He had.

He wanted to break things, he wanted to punch people, he wanted to put an arrow through the eye of every person who tried to convince him that it _wasn't_ his fault because it he was the one who made it all possible. He didn't break things, though. He didn't punch people, nor did he shoot his bow.

He let Natasha pack whatever little he had and drag him to Stark tower with them. There, He shut down. He refused to talk to anyone. He ate (sporadically), he slept (fitfully) and he breathed (hatefully). _Unresponsive_.

He ignored Stark's stupid remarks. Steve's soft-eyed concern. Banner's anxious worry. He stayed, huddled in his room, ignoring the boom of the demigod's loud voice. He flat-out ignored Natasha.

He mimicked the motions of living. He didn't even care.

_It was his damned fault._

He thought of Coulson again, and tried to blink back tears. Couldn't believe it. Coulson. His handler who had brought him in. Coulson had been the first one Clint had grown to trust, after a life of betrayal and deception. It had been difficult, but after multiple missions and training sessions and the _sheer time_ the two had spent together, Coulson had undeniably become a pivotal part of his life.

Clint closed his eyes.

"_Radio silence, agent Barton," Coulson ordered firmly, but he nearly always detected humour in his handler's voice. _

_"Not a chance, old man," Clint laughed softly. "You know you love my jokes."_

_"Keep telling yourself that, Barton, I'm sure it'll come true."_

_"You just have to grow into them." Clint said. He waited; he heard the pointed lack of a reply and grinned. "Phil. Come on. Don't do that. You know I go crazy if I don't talk on missions."_

_"_Everyone _goes crazy when you talk on missions," _

"_Yeah. Well, it's SHIELD. Who isn't already crazy?"_

"_Touché." _

Even more than Coulson's tolerance for his talkative habits, Clint valued the solid comfort and strength the man seemed to almost radiate. Coulson was everything he had lost at a young age… Clint didn't know how he'd manage without Coulson's brotherly support for him.

His heart lurched as he thought of Coulson's voice, coaching him through cauterizing his wounds, splinting limbs and soothingly reassuring him whenever he nearly died. Which, as an active field-agent was entirely too often.

"_Phil," he gasped over the com, doubled over in pain. _

_"Clint?" Phil's short, anxious tone flooded through his head. _

_"I need… extraction," he spat out a mouthful of blood. He let his head drop onto the ground and curled onto his side. _

_"I know, I'm coming, Clint. We're on our way. I need you to sit tight, okay? We're coming." _

_"Phil…" he rasped, his vision greying ominously. _

_"I'm here, Clint. I'm almost there. I need you to hold on, okay? Keep your eyes open."_

_"Can't," he said weakly. _

_"You have to. Keep talking, Clint, you can do it. I'm coming, okay? It's going to be fine. You have to stay awake. Do you hear me?" _

_Clint groaned in reply._

_"Come on, Clint, you've never given me radio silence, don't start now. C'mon."_

_There was nothing but the sound of Clint's ragged breathing._

_"Clint! Phil said sharply. "Stay awake! Clint, keep talking, okay? Keep talking and I'll… I'll…" he cast about wildly. "I'll get you unlimited range access. Clint? You hear that?"_

_"Yeah?" he asked his speech slurring._

_"Yes," Phil said soothingly. "You can. If you stay awake, if you hold on, I'll get you unlimited range access. Okay?"_

_"Can we get better food, too? For…. For the mess hall?"_

_"Absolutely." Phil said. "And you need to stay around to eat it, okay? Keep talking Clint, and I'll get you whatever you want." _

_"Rooftop pool?"_

_"Sure," Phil said. "You can have a rooftop pool. A huge one. Circular, if you'd like. With a hot-tub. Stay with me," he added, as he heard Clint cough wetly. "I'm almost there, Clint. Just hold on." _

_Ten minutes and a series of promises later, a helicopter lowered itself some twenty feet from him. Within a minute, Phil was kneeling over him, turning him over and checking his pulse. Clint felt himself loaded on a gurney and rolled into the helicopter, where various people set to work, cleaning the blood off him and hooking him up to monitors. _

_"You can sleep now," Phil said, patting his shoulder. His eyes grew heavy. "Sleep, Clint. You're going to be fine."_

Clint gasped, as the memory stabbed him. Phil had kept his promises. Even the silly ones he had made in his injured haze, and the most important one. _I'm coming, Clint. I'll be there. _

It wasn't even singular. He couldn't even count the number of times Phil had been there when he had been injured. Phil, who had changed his life around. Who gave him a chance. Who fought for passionately him when Clint was nearly thrown out because of his escapade with the Black Widow.

Phil was dead.

And it was Clint who killed him.

The thought nearly consumed him, propelling him off the edge. He couldn't do it. He couldn't carry this with him for another minute. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't think about anything else. He was compelled to check mirrors every three to flour minutes, to ensure that his eyes weren't electric blue. This reassurance was futile, however; he was still a threat. He would always be a threat. Look at him. He had led Loki to the helicarrier. He killed innocent people. He had killed Phil Coulson.

He couldn't stay here. He couldn't hurt anyone else.

And even if, by some strange miracle, he didn't hurt anyone else, he couldn't handle the pain.

Clint pushed himself towards the edge, rolling forward on his palms. He was ridiculously sure of his footing, and had spent years with grappling arrows, throwing himself on and off ledges, but this is the closet he'd sat to the edge, without his bow.

The smallest push.

He could use one finger.

That's all it'd take.

Wouldn't take a gun. Wouldn't take an arrow. Wouldn't take the scepter _he_ had used to kill Coulson with.

Just one finger.

He fleetingly thought of Natasha. Should he say something to the woman who'd completed the project Coulson had started with him? She'd be livid. He almost considered drawing back.

No. It was better this way. He wouldn't be able to hurt her. He would never forget the fear in her green eyes as she surveyed him, hands curled around her weapons before he 'came to.' It was tangible. He never wanted to cause her that fear again.

He stared at the night sky. It was invitingly free, unconstrained and unmarked. Like he longed to be.

Like he'd never be.

Closing his eyes, he rocked forward and let his hands slide off the edge.

"I'm so sorry," Clint whispered hoarsely.

He fell.

* * *

Yep. So here's my baby. Don't worry, it's not a one-shot. I've got a full story planned. I hope you like what you've seen so far. Reviews make my day!


	2. Chapter 2

Here's the second chapter. I do love me some angst. I apologise profusely for the cliff-hanger I ended the last chapter with... hope this makes up for it! **WARNING: **There's quite a bit of swearing in this chapter, but I thought it was necessary, considering the events. If you don't like it, don't read!

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise.

* * *

He fell.

He closed his eyes as the wind whooshed above him. Any moment now. Any moment, and it'd be over. He'd be free.

He heard a shout and the loud roar of firing thrusters– and he clunked into something hard and metal.

His head crashed painfully into the hard surface and bumped back. He felt something wet dribble down the side of his skull.

He had no idea what was happening. He tried to move, to fight, but he was held down firmly, rendered immobile.

His disoriented mind vaguely registered that he was no longer falling; he was flying. He was flying, and someone was talking above him.

"God, Barton, oh my fucking God, Barton…"

He recognised the voice, despite it being distorted by the familiar red and gold helmet that only further confirmed the truth.

_Stark_.

Tony Stark had him clamped to his body; Stark had caught him. Annoying, narcissistic, infuriating Stark had caught him and was currently soaring off with him.

Unable to move and slightly in shock, Clint watch as Iron Man burst his way through a window and dropped to the floor, loosening his hold on Clint. He crashed to the ground and rolled to his side, dimly aware of Stark thudding towards him.

"What the _fuck _were you doing?" Stark's voice thudded loudly over his head. "What the fuck were you thinking, Barton?"

He didn't respond. Angry hands seized him by the shoulders, rolled him over and forced him to sit up.

Stark retracted his faceplate to stare at him–pale, his expression terrified. His face didn't hold a trace of its usual sarcasm and mockery.

Clint could have _easily _punched Stark in the face and darted out of his hold, but instead, he sagged in the iron grip, the fight seeping right through him.

"Dammit, Barton," Stark stared at him, maintaining his grip. "What the fuck were you doing?

Clint stared ahead. He was cold. His head throbbed painfully. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He didn't even wanted to be here.

"JARVIS," Tony called, still glaring at Clint in his arms. "Get the others,"

Clint's eyes snapped to Tony. "No," he hissed. Don't call anyone."

"Not a chance, birdbrain," Tony said, tightening his grip on Clint. "You fucking throw yourself off my tower, you get to face the consequences."

Clint dropped his head, struggling to hide the sudden tears in his eyes.

_He was so fucking weak. _

"No," he said gruffly, shaking with the effort to keep his voice steady. "Don't tell anyone. Just… just not now, Stark."

Tony stared at him, confused by the sudden shift in his emotions. His stomach lurched suddenly, as he noticed the blood at Clint's hairline. "Damnit Barton," he said. "You're bleeding."

He suddenly remembered Barton's head crashing into his chest as he seized the man out of the air.

"I'm fine." Clint said shortly, although feeling the warm wetness on his forehead for the first time.

"We gotta get you looked at."

"No,"

"What do you mean _no, _you're bleeding from the head!"

"I'm _fine," _he insisted. "Let me go."

"So you can throw yourself off a building?" Stark said, anger flashing in his eyes. "What the fuck was that about? Huh?"

Clint sighed and pushed himself away from Stark, turning away to avoid the question.

"I'm going to take the suit off," Tony said, after a moment, "so if there's anything else you'd like to add to your little stunt, now's the time."

Clint ignored the jibe– slightly concerned at the fact that it washed over him without triggering a single response– and said nothing. He turned and slumped against the wall, where the Iron-Man-sized-hole in the glass stared him down.

Behind him, he heard the sound of the suit retracting into its portable briefcase; the whizz of the mechanical folding was uncomfortably familiar.

He felt Tony slide beside him. He felt a painful craving for solitude, but he doubted Tony would leave.

_He thinks you're a fucking nut-job, Barton. He'll tell Fury for sure and they'll cart you off to some SHIELD asylum. _

"Barton," Tony said after a moment, anger and sarcasm slowly dissipating. "Barton, look at me,"

Clint's natural response was to, of course, ignore him (or punch him in his meddling face), but he forced himself to wrench his eyes up to meet Stark's uncharacteristically concerned gaze.

"What," he grunted, watching Tony's eyes narrow.

"I think you might have a concussion."

"What?" he said, taken off guard.

"I think you have a concussion," Tony repeated slowly, looking him in the eyes.

"Huh?" Clint blinked at him.

"Well, for one, one of your pupils is bigger than the other and… you're kind of shivering."

Clint contemplated this slowly. "Fuck."

"Yeah," Tony stared at him. "We got to get you to Banner, at least. Relax, it's just Banner. He isn't going to ask any questions," he added, as Clint whipped his head around to stare at him with panicked eyes.

"I'll be fine," Barton said. He got to his feet, in a show of bravado, only to stumble into Tony's concerned arms.

"Uh-huh," Tony said. "Just relax, okay? I know, it's been a godawful day for you, but it could get a hell of a lot worse. Just… relax. We have… we have a lot to deal with, but let's just get this taken care of, and you can go to bed."

Clint was too exhausted to put up a fight. His body ached, his head was pounding uncomfortably; he surprised and confused by Stark's concern, but couldn't muster the strength to question anything.

He did, unfortunately, register the nagging voice in the back of his mind, repeatedly chanting the words_ weak weak weak. _

_"_Come on," Tony said, when it became certain that Clint wasn't going to move on his own. He looped Clint's arm around his neck and began towing him along.

_Weak weak weak. _

He wondered briefly why Stark wasn't afraid of him. He remembered overhearing the junior agents discussing the way Stark and Rogers had to single-handedly manage the helicarrier after he had damaged it.

He had really screwed them all over.

So why the hell was Stark helping him?

Clint turned to Stark expectantly.

"You okay?" Stark asked, noticing Clint staring at him.

"What are you doing?" He prayed that Stark didn't notice the way his words slurred.

"I'm taking you to Banner?" Stark said, confused.

"No…" Clint clarified. "Why are you helping me?"

Tony sighed deeply. He wasn't entirely sure himself. Also, the real answer ran a bit deep, and he didn't think Clint could handle any deep, soul-wrenching discussions, given his current mental state. He settled for the safest answer he could think of.

"We're on the same team, Legolas. You'd help me if I went down." He cringed almost immediately, just noticing the double-entendre and its connotation. It was strange for him, being so receptive to the feelings of others.

Clint didn't respond– he was either deeply contemplating Stark's answer, or the concussion was really affecting him.

Tony tugged them into the elevator, propping Clint against the wall. "Take us to Banner, JARVIS," he ordered firmly.

The elevator dinged as it lifted. Clint slumped further against the wall. The small space and the motion was making him nauseous. He worried about vomiting all over the elevator floor, but he remembered that he hadn't eaten anything since the afternoon before.

The elevator finally came to a stop, and Tony shepherded him out of the elevator and dragged him down a series of hallways. Clint made no motion to break the silence, so Tony, despite the thousand remarks and questions on the tip of his tongue, respected it.

Bruce opened the door when they knocked, his medically-trained eyes zeroing in immediately on Clint.

"What happened?" he asked, seizing Clint's other arm and leading him to a chair.

"Think he's got a concussion, doc," Tony said. "He… uh… he hit his head."

Bruce stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head, turning back to Clint. He immediately busied himself, checking Clint's pulse and peering into his eyes.

At the moment, Clint looked fairly unresponsive, but Tony moved closer to Bruce, to maintain some degree of tact.

"Bruce," he said. "Listen. I really… I gotta talk to the others. Take care of him, do your thing, but _do not_ leave him alone, alright? Just… patch him up, but keep him here, don't let him out of your sight."

Bruce turned to him, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What… happened?" he asked slowly, concerned brown eyes boring into Tony.

"I'll explain later," Tony said. "Just keep him with you, I'll be back in a few minutes."

Bruce swallowed the obvious questions and nodded. It was rare for him to see the genius so obviously rattled. "He'll proabably need to be kept under observation for a bit anyway,"

"Good. Great," Tony said. "I need to talk to Romanoff."

* * *

Once outside, Tony paused, to run a hand through his hair. He couldn't believe what had happened. Couldn't believe it.

His heart turned cold at the thought of what could have happened… at what was _so close _to happening.

Barton had always been reserved. Ever since Tony had invited the crew to move into the Stark– the Avengers tower from the SHIELD headquarters, Barton had made no effort to talk to anyone. From what he knew, he had come because Romanoff had come.

He asked Romanoff about it a few times, but her answers were deliberately vague. She had, however, dropped the icy exterior she reserved for him and told him that Clint was killing himself with his guilt, and couldn't get over the events that transpired on the helicarrier.

Of course, Tony had scoffed, and Natasha had glared venomously, but he didn't _understand. _Yes, Clint had torn up the helicarrier and let Loki in, but Clint had been possessed by magic. _Magic. _Not even some lab-cooked drug; it was potent Asgardian magic. That, in Tony's book, had been equivalent to Clint having no responsibility over what happened.

"I don't think he sees it like that," Rogers had said, ever understanding, as Tony complained over dinner. "He thinks he should have been able to fight it. It's not an uncommon response."

"It's _magic," _Tony said. "Loki just used him as a puppet, it wasn't him who did anything."

It made absolutely no sense to him.

"Don't forget about Coulson," Bruce added. "They were very close, from what I've heard."

Tony felt silent after that. That, he understood. It still hurt to think of Coulson… _Agent_, as he had called him, with his external no-nonsense attitude and internally caring personality. He wondered how Clint and Coulson met.

"Where does he even go?" he wondered, another afternoon. "The tower's pretty spacey, yeah, I know that, but even then, I hardly see the guy."

"He spends a lot of time on the roof," Bruce said idly. "He's a marksman, right? Guess it's comforting."

A few hours later that evening, Tony had been in the lab, making adjustments to the suit, when he suddenly remembered Barton.

"JARVIS," he called out.

"Yes, sir?"

"Where's agent Barton?"

"Agent Barton is currently on the roof."

"Get me security feed of the roof."

A screen dropped down in front of him, displaying the night sky and the concrete terrace topping the tower. A lone figure, sat huddled over the edge.

"JARVIS…" Tony said, lost in thought.

"Yes, sir?"

"Pan… one-twenty-five degrees," he said, his brows furrowing in concern. "Zoom."

The camera turned and focused on Barton, with his legs dangling over the edge.

"What the fuck are you doing so close to the edge, Barton?" He stared at the figure. He wondered if Barton would… no. He wouldn't. He was a SHIELD agent. A _marksman. _He'd seen the worst of the worst. He wouldn't just… no. He was simply there for the view and the air.

But upon closer view, the man looked terrible. His short hair looked limp and lifeless; his dark circles resembled bruises, they contrasted so starkly with his pale skin.

He had the look of a lost man. He seemed so forlorn, Tony began to worry. He knew Barton trained in the circus (he was bored after the Chitauri attack and passed time by hacking SHIELD files) and then spent years training with Coulson. He'd seen Barton in action, performing series of ridiculously impossible acrobatics, shooting his bow at the most inopportune angles, seen his agility in action.

But without his bow, without his weapons, Barton was only human and certainly capable of error. One small move, and they'd be scraping his remains off the pavement.

Tony couldn't understand it, but the man was certainly depressed. It didn't even _have _to be an error. What if he decided…

Tony made his decision there.

"JARVIS," he called out. "I want constant video surveillance of Barton when he's on the roof."

A few days passed, and Tony noticed with increasing worry that Barton was inching closer to the edge each time. Left to him, he would have confronted the man and restricted him from accessing the roof, but Tony wasn't too sure how to handle such a poignant accusation in a situation so sensitive.

Instead, he resorted to keeping the Mark VII on standby; he would be prepared. He worked at a table near the window, checking the surveillance every so often.

However, Tony realised the futility of his 'preperation' when JARVIS alerted him to Agent Barton's movements. He peered at the screen, his wrench clattered to the ground, as he watched the man roll his palms forward. He almost seemed to duck his head and whisper something to himself, when something in Tony clicked.

"JARVIS, SUIT!" he shouted, sensing the worst. The suit immediately assembled around him, and Tony wasted no time in bounding through the glass, sending fragments rushing towards the Earth below.

He looked up to the roof, just as he saw Barton fall– his back arching, his arms swaying in the wind. His eyes were shut, shut tight, and Tony felt his scream die on his tongue as he raced towards the man, wiling himself to go fast enough to catch him.

He gasped in relief– poise and charm forgotten– as he seized Barton by the arm and then clamped him down, stopping him from moving.

He hadn't missed the pallor of Barton's skin, or the uncharacteristic way his own hands were shaking.

He just needed to get them both inside.

* * *

Tony stopped in the hallway, just outside the sprawling kitchen where he wanted to notify the team of the events that had occurred. He trusted Bruce to stay with Barton; he'd fill him in later.

Still, he called to JARVIS– "Barton is now under high security, constant surveillance. If he makes any attempt to leave the room without Doctor Banner, lock all doors and inform me immediately."

"Yes, sir," JARVIS responded in his curt English accent.

"And call Rogers and Romanoff to the kitchen."

He dragged his feet heavily to the table, where he collapsed in one of the chairs. He wondered idly why he cared so much.

The answer was obvious. Barton confused him. He wasn't sure how the man created the perfect illusion of apathy when he obviously _cared _and _felt _and did so more strongly than anyone on the team. He was an enigma, and an undoubtedly valuable asset to the team.

He had been through hell. In his childhood, in his youth and everything else. But he had found himself at SHIELD, and he had marked his place with Coulson and Natasha. And hatred for Loki burned through him as he thought of the possession that had completely shaken the man's well-developed exterior. The possession that had sent Barton to his own, unescapable hell. And Tony was determined to do whatever it took to pull him out of it.

It was certainly going to be a long road ahead, he thought, as he waited for Rogers and Romanoff.

* * *

Phew. That was a marathon to write.

Please review. I've never posted an Avengers story before, despite being such an avid fangirl; reviews are my incentive to keep going!


End file.
